


On The Job

by lowclasshifi



Series: The Adventures of the Captain [1]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27384040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowclasshifi/pseuds/lowclasshifi
Series: The Adventures of the Captain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000434





	On The Job

Ron tossed the last body into the hole, and started shoveling the red dirt to cover them.

All three hundred and fifty of them. It would take forever to get the stench out of his fur, and longer to get it out of his nose—all of their piss and shit, on top of the rotting carcass smells, the melange mounting assault on his body, a smell so thick and insistent it was as if the dead themselves were hurling one final insult upon him, the great Captain Ron!

Not great. Just a man. A dogman. Stick to the facts. He grumbled and took a deep breath to center himself.

They had all fallen ill—a sickness that was rare in core worlds, but more common on the galactic outskirts. Deadly if untreated, usually fatal. But also a treatable sickness, with easily accessible medicines.

But Dorlan Co Ltd had decided that would be too costly—recovery takes time, you see, and lost time means lost money. So they were left to die, while another ferry of the poor, foolish, and desperate was sent out.

Ron was sent out there with this new shipment to make sure the sick ones didn’t try anything.

It was pretty easy. The sick and dying want to be extraordinary in their final moments, but their failing bodies prevent them from doing it. Overthrowing the one Dogman watching you expire wouldn’t be too difficult if you weren’t bleeding from your eyes and literally vomiting up your internal organs.

And the ones bold enough to try anything were simply shot before they could do any lasting damage—their death certs had already been printed up and backdated, all of the language explaining the delay between Time Of Death and delivery of the somber and horrific news prepped and ready to be spouted by PR flack androids who showed up in person at people’s doorstep (for The Ones Who Mattered, which is a fancy way of saying non-criminal and non-slave workers, who were there by whatever passed for choice in their lives), call center AI’s who spoke with HR AI’s (for Literal Wage Slaves, people who were property to their respective Corporations), and form emails sent to whoever was left (the dregs of the prison system that nobody gave a shit about—they didn’t even have names). The text was the exact same across all methods, with slight tweaks to make it more or less personal (Salaried employees would get a blurb describing the most obvious but specific thing the copywriters could find).

Speeds up the process of getting the new shipment delivered to the worksite. Which would trigger another outbreak, and another shipment, and another minder, and another outbreak, and so on and so forth.

Wind howled in his ears, the smell of death wafting away from him, replaced with the experience of communal mealtime—sizzling meats, happy chatter, roasting vegetables, cheap beer, and the general sense of delusion that comes with thinking you’ve found freedom when you’re really being sentenced to die, just to “reduce costs” and “streamline operations”.

And that was the way of it, wasn’t it? A life spent serving one master or another, destroying your body to line someone else’s pockets, giving up time—that most precious, unrenewable resource—to simply make sure you’d go on living another day?

Even worse, that wasn’t promised! And if—no, no if, when, there was no question out here—you died, your next of kin would be told that it was simply The Cost Of Doing Business, and that choices were made, and that they knew the risks, so please accept this token of our gratitude, which would be nothing more than a plaque with your name spelled wrong.

No one realized—

Wait. Getting away from myself, Ron thought. Too far afield. Out of bounds.

Back to the present, where you don’t have to think too hard. Shipments. Dead bodies. Standard Operating Procedures. Dorlan: We’re Every Alternative! That, focus on that.

Was there more? No, he thought, that was about the extent of it. Brutal, straightforward, and effective. A process iterated over the course of years from a paperwork nightmare to the sleek machine that it was now. Nothing special.

Nothing special.

Under a red sky darkening to wine—at least, that’s what he was told, color wasn’t his strong suit—he tapped his eyepatch, put on some Bruce Springsteen, and started shoveling the dirt.

“Maybe everything that dies, someday comes back,” he muttered in his gravelly voice, no tune evident.

What a cute idea.

***

“And what of the brave men who fought and died for something greater than them, a world that they would never live to see, no matter how long they lived? To be a small player in grand events that could bend the arc of history away from apocalypse? Do we not dishonor their memory by simply giving in to those who have ground us into dust? Should we not resist with all of the might and heart we can muster?”

The boy who said all that raised his fist in the air, and a wave of cheers went up from the twenty-two men assembled around the large fire. They were drunk on beer and the promise of revolution. All of them young, less than twenty five by human reckoning—in some circles, barely out of childhood. Not a sober one among them, clapping each other on the back, smiling, chatting, laughing, hollering against the black sky. Isolated in a hilly wasteland, assuming that no one could possibly be out here, and why would they be? It was a plain concrete box with a few basement levels set into the side of a large hill, a useless backwater outpost. They were confident that nothing was going to touch them, because they couldn’t conceive of ever being important enough to warrant it.

Which was unfortunate, because someone at Dorlan Co Ltd thought it was important enough to warrant a response, and warrant the most extreme response imaginable: dispatching the legendary Captain Ron.

He set his binoculars aside and looked up at the stars. It had to be him, they said. Whoever was holed up here had some vital information on an experimental device that could render all previous forms of power and energy generation obsolete. Dorlan had to have it, obviously. Such a thing shouldn’t simply be out in the world, it should be in the hands of innovators, the people who disrupt and facilitate change. Economic vanguards, the visionaries who made the future happen.

It hinged on a lot of if’s, but if it was true, and if it was not being misrepresented, and if it was in a location that could be accessed, and if it could be safely handled?

Dorlan Co Ltd would be looking at a revolution in their business sectors—which is to say, all of them, from food service to financial instruments (Ron loved the savagery that term hid so well, a seemingly neutral thing that could bring individuals and sovereign states to their knees. Tamper with the rules of the money you’re handing over, hide a few bits of text in the fine print, use laws that your division wrote and forced through legislative bodies to give them ironclad legality, and watch a man kill himself, or a nation crumble into a hellhole full of starving and angry people. Then you can swoop in and make a privatized state look like heaven.) to heavy industry to defense technology.

***

“And not,” Wizzlin said, “a peaceful kind.” He let that phrase hang in the air for a few seconds, giving it room to emphasize its meaning.

He sat back down when the echo faded, the slimy satisfaction plainly evident on his face. Wizzlin had a remarkable gift for oration and poetics in his speeches. His sense of timing, word choice, cadence—all precisely honed over years and years in the trenches of corporate warfare.

A good trait to have, because Wizzlin himself was not a remarkable man. He was short—five feet, by human reckoning—and his face was a pale, waxy, pinched thing, with chubby and sagging cheeks. He had bulging eyes that only looked bigger through the enormous lenses of his glasses. He looked perpetually sweaty, black hair always combed back and pressed flat against his skull. Small teeth that seemed fit only to nibble on wood and paper. Thin lips that couldn’t curl into anything but a sneer. Pencil thin mustache sitting just above his mouth. A body devoid of anything that could be called hardness, nothing but perfectly manicured nails and baby-soft skin.

Every time Ron saw him, he had to suppress the urge to tear his throat out. It was the least he could do for the only person willing to hire him.

Wizzlin and Ron were seated at a small table, with two glasses of water and a pitcher that was empty when they arrived. Across from them sat nine people, arranged in a semicircle, all strategically lit so that their faces could not be seen. Behind them, doctors and other medical professionals buzzed about, checking IV bags, digital readouts, breathing patterns, and doing their best to not pay attention—depending on the content of the discussion, they could have their memories wiped, or be simply killed. Best to do what you could to remain ignorant. Behind them was the surface of Dorlan, Dorlan’s HQ. They owned the whole planet, and while it was nominally run by non-corporate public servants, everyone knew that they were simply an extension of Management.

“Your proposal is intriguing, Wizzling, but my colleagues agree that this is spotty intel, at best,” Krinz, the newest member of the Board (at 91) said.

“Agreed. Speculative at best, risking open warfare against other corporations and sovereign governments at worst,” said DuPaulo, the only woman. “This is not an operation to be undertaken lightly.”

Wizzlin stood back up. “I agree, Madam Director. But my sources have assured me that what they have found is genuine, and there is no reason to doubt their veracity.”

A sound like rocks grinding, the robotic imitation of throat clearing. Zennemon, oldest living member, but not longest serving. “Beyond their desire to see our empire—pardon me, enterprise—crumble?” The words were delivered in a flat, emotionless affect, but Ron knew he was the most Old World of them, a bloodthirsty warmonger who knew good capital was built on the backs of the broken and the dead. “What we have is stable and long-lasting, why risk that?”

“All efforts have been made to keep this mission off-book and as deep cover as possible. No recording of this meeting shall exist.” That statement triggered a murmur. How could someone have done that? Ron guessed it was a bluff, but it got their attention. “Should this mission prove to be nothing, it will stay that way.

“We have taken every care to control the availability of information regarding this mission. No one, besides myself and my hand-picked operative, are able to tell you details of the operation.”

Zennemon scoffed, gravel scraping paper. “He seems uniquely ill-suited to the task, given his background.” That always hurt.

“On the contrary, Director Zennemon—Ron is the perfect candidate. He has perfect deniability for however the mission resolves, in failure, success, or exposure. His position renders him able to be disavowed or celebrated in equal measure.” Wizzlin turned to him and winked.

***

There was another three hours of negotiation and convincing after that, but Wizzlin got approval, and now Ron was out here.

Kill everyone, get the info, get out. That was the job. Do it, take the check, get drunk and forget about existing until the next call came in.

So he waited. They all went to sleep. Didn’t even post a watch.

Too easy.

Under cover of night, he set up a line of explosive charges around the perimeter. They were on a hill, but it was rocky enough to keep his footing. They drank to excess, so he wasn’t too worried about the noise he was making. The small transport vehicle he had was also near silent, which made crossing the gap painless.

Armed and ready. Take out as many in one go as possible. Makes it easier to mop up everybody else. Not that he would have much trouble anyways, given their piss-poor aim.

Bunch of fucking kids, drunk on a few books and liquid courage.

Waste of time, waste of life, waste of his talents.

The sun was coming up. Now it was time to rest. Strip out all of the extra words from his brain, slip into the sleek, economical language of killing and survival.

Time for sleep.

Move to far side of opposite hill. Set up tent. Alarm set.

Weapon check—just in case.

Rifle. Scoped rifle (no need for anything specialized, they weren’t far enough away to warrant it) Sidearm. Second sidearm Knife. Boot knife. Other boot knife.

Keep everything on. Slouch against a rock.

Sleep.

***

Revolution was ringing out in the rolling hills, a war cry from the workers! Their entire lives had been dictated by Dorlan, and the Hundmen had finally had enough.

Their planet was at a critical point in its lifecycle, teetering on the edge of collapse from constant corporate colonialism and pillaging. The rich natural resources that, by rights, belonged to the indigenous people was being stolen, and the people themselves were forced to enact their agenda. Forced to work, to break their bodies, to give up any chance at a future free of want or worry, all so a small group of men could profit.

Madness! Rennelach seethed at the thought of men who had no connection or desire for his people and their world beyond what value could be extracted from it. To use people, pollute their air and water, condemn them to leave their home or face extinction, all because they had found another, richer, more pliable planet and sentients.

He vowed, that day, at the silicon processing factory, watching broken men die in what was slavery in everything but name, that he would fight for a better future, even though he may never live to see it.

That vow destroyed that factory, and killed every corp lackey within ten miles. He had control of these men and women, hungry for a new world, thirsty for the blood of the humans who pushed them past their limits.

Dorlan would see the cost of doing business. They would see the only alternative available to those with nothing to lose.

Rennelach was young. He believed.

***

The explosion roused him from sleep. The night was dark. Going to get darker.

Time to go to work.

Quickly and quietly, he grabbed his scoped rifle and moved to the ridge opposite the compound.

Seven were dead on the ground, from what he could see. Another two were rolling down to the base of the hill. Looked unconscious. They would smash their heads against so many rocks they were as good as dead.

So that was nine. Thirteen more to go.

None of them were paying attention to the threat—no training at all. First round of trouble they turned into scared little boys.

Ron remembered what that was like, the numbness giving way to a fear as cold as death wrapped—

No. Time to focus.

Boys cradling their fallen comrades. Crying. Wailing. One praying, another frantically attempting satellite connection.

No time to feel something. Shoot.

Pop, pop, pop. He barely felt the butt of the rifle dig into his shoulder—new gear. Very nice.

Three more dead, each missing his head.

Ten left.

He left his perch and took his time getting to his transport. None of them were paying attention to anything happening beyond the circle of light cast by the fire.

It hummed quietly, and ferried him across the chasm, right at the edge of the firelight. Others stepped outside to see the commotion. They were waved off.

Ron was positioned by the boy yelling at the others.

“Go! Back inside! Go!” A hoarse voice pleaded. “Just go!”

“But maybe we can save you—“

“NO!!! Just go. Go,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Steps back inside the compound.

Elevator moving down.

Ron bounded up onto the uneven platform. Shot the kid in the head. Right leg was missing below the knee. Wasn’t visible from his perch.

Nine left.

He checked his rifle. His two pistols. Flashbang. Smoke grenade. Gasmask with selective audio suppression technology (Dorlan: We’re Every Alternative!).

No locks on the doors. They probably thought there was no need.

Elevator still worked.

Down.

Ron pulled the pin on his flashbang.

Door opened.

Toss.

Bang.

Smoke grenade next, while they were disoriented.

Follow the sound.

Square corridor with one central room. Easy enough.

He went in the front. No barricades. Nothing defensible. Just panicked kids holding old guns, stunned and unable to move. Probably didn’t even know where Ron was positioned.

Too easy. He felt bad.

But that was the job.

He got seven of them with no problem. The eighth was brave, and lunged at Ron, managed to put him on one knee.

So he pulled the boot knife and brought it up under the kid’s throat. Coughed and sputtered.

One more. Breathing hard, but not scared?

“Stop! You’re here for me!”

The ninth crawled out from behind a table. “I’m the one that you’re here to rescue.”

“What?” Ron asked. This was information, not extraction. “I’m here for information.”

“Is that what they told you?” Nine asked. Ron nodded. “Well, I’m the information.”

Ron lowered his weapon, then unstrapped his gasmask. “So why wasn’t I told?”

“My friend said that Dorlan doesn’t do rescue. Easier to replace people than save them.”

Could be a change in the mission. “So why are you here?”

The boy was finding his feet. He stood, dusted himself off. “I told some people I needed to lay low because Dorlan had put a hit out on me. They really thought I was some bigwig at the company! Said I had some really special intel I’d gotten from an old FTL lane expedition.”

This was all new information. “Who are these people?”

“Workers’ Rev. Some doomed commie bullshit army.” He snickered at that. “Was going to get transported to their HQ.”

“Doesn’t explain what I just did,” Ron growled.

“Needed a remote safe house so I could lay low while they got travel in order. The guys were here because they were green and wanted to feel useful.”

“You knew that?”

“Yeah. It’s not a big deal. They got killed, I got saved, and you got paid! That’s good, right?”

Out of nowhere, a question came to Ron. “Why’d you turn?”

Nine tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Ron said, taking a step towards his quarry, “why did you abandon them?”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions here, and also you’re just here to—“

Ron grabbed the boy by his shirt and lifted him off the ground. “Why did I just kill twenty-one boys?” He asked through bared teeth. “Was it because you’re a coward?”

He was crying already. “It wasn’t fun anymore! They were losing. People were dying. I could see the writing on the wall, and I wanted to go home! I knew people, and they knew people, and they told me it was happening!”

“And your friends?”

“Not friends, just idiots. They didn’t matter, they didn’t matter, they didn’t matter..” He trailed off incoherently into tearful babbling. Ron dropped him in a heap on the floor.

Ron had struck a blow against a revolution to save a kid.

No.

Ron had compromised a strategically vital location to rescue a traitor.

No, neither of those were true.

Ron had done his job.

Well, maybe. He had to ask one more question to be sure.

“Did I do all of that for fake info?”

He looked up at the looming and terrifying Dogman, and shook his head. “N-no. I’ve got it here,” he said, reaching into his pocket and producing a pocket drive. “This is the only physical copy left. It’s how I got you to come here.”

Ron took it, held it to the light. His eyepatch scan authenticated it as official Dorlan tech. He then took out his pistol and shot the kid in the head.

***

On the elevator ride up—which seemed to take an eternity compared to the trip down—Ron was alone with his thoughts. A terrible place to be.

It didn’t have to be this way, at least that’s what he told himself. That made him feel better.

He wondered if Wizzlin knew, or if he was as in the dark about it as Ron.

Then the elevator door opened, and he stepped outside.

The comms device one boy clutched still worked. He found the band Workers’ Rev were using.

“Location compromised. Do not approach.”

He had what he needed. Best not to make things worse for more people.


End file.
